Arranged: The Supplementary Tales
by Captain Fantastic
Summary: These are supplements to my completed story Arranged. They will be posted sporadically and in no particular order. Enjoy.
1. Living

**_For Senora Eva._**

**_._**

**_.  
_**

She was nine years old when he came. She thought he was at least a hundred. There was no youth in the haggard lines of his face, which was stretched thin across his bones from hunger and thirst and sorrow. When they first met, she thought his eyes were black, but that was because there was nothing in them but guilt and shame and pain.

His eyes were blue, but it was weeks before she realized it. They were black and black and black, and then one day he laughed at something she said, and inexplicably they flashed blue. They stayed that way for a long time.

She had never seen death before she saw him. Her parents were Tevouins before her, and they had died before she was old enough to realize the difference. But death gripped him like an angry noose. She imagined she could see the knot against his sunburned neck, squeezing all the breath out of his throat until nothing inside of him could get out.

She couldn't remember what she had said that day his eyes flashed blue. All she could remember was that it wasn't profound. He didn't need profound. He needed a family.

As the days passed, his age decreased. One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven…and on the day his eyes were blue, he was nine years old.

Once, she asked him where he came from. He told her that he came from nowhere.

She knew he was lying because of the peculiar shadow that passed over his face, because things like guilt and shame and pain had to come from somewhere, and because she could taste the lie in the air. It tasted of mildew and disappointment.

She decided then that she would never lie, because if that taste were allowed to fill the world, then everyone would surely die from the sheer repugnance of it.

Once, she asked him what he was running from. He told her that he wasn't running from anything.

The peculiar shadow reappeared, and she could taste the lie once more. He used to look over his shoulder at every turn, flinch whenever someone called his name, and wake up screaming in the middle of the night.

She knew he was running from something. She also knew, somehow, that she wasn't supposed to know. So she stopped asking, because fewer lies gave the world a little more time to breathe.

When they were thirteen, a boy told her that the fey didn't really exist, and that she was stupid for talking to them. Her brother Nathaniel gave him a black eye, and the boy bloodied Nat's nose. Rowe jumped in and blackened the boy's other eye before Astra stopped the fight. She told them that families didn't solve problems this way, and the boy said that Rowe wasn't family.

Naima never forgot that moment for as long as she lived, because for a brief second Rowe's eyes were black again, and she knew that whatever he was running from had finally caught up with him.

Nathaniel told the boy that Rowe was his brother, and that made him a Tevouin. Blue replaced black once more, and something tangible grew between the two. It was more than a bond. It was a promise.

Rowe never got into fights with his family after that, even if the other boys tried to start something. Naima knew that Astra's words had been more than a rebuke to him—they were a rule to live by. The Tevouins were all he had, because he had left everything else behind.

When they were fifteen, he could handle a sword better than most people could handle living. He was speed and grace and liquid fire, kicking up sand until it was hard to see the line between skill and talent.

Naima only liked watching because the fey did. They would dart between sword thrusts, skate along the blade's edge like sunlight, and twirl through Rowe's movements in ribbons of boundless energy.

It was pure poetry.

When she told him that she thought he might be a poet, he told her that only a poet would think that. She wasn't a poet though. She was a storyteller. She knew that like she knew how to breathe.

When they were seventeen, Nat was killed, and she saw Rowe cry for the first time. She thought she could see the years building up inside of him again—eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and on and on. He cried like he fought—so fast and fierce that she couldn't see the line between anger and sorrow. Maybe there wasn't one.

Naima cried like she lived—with so much passion that it filled up her insides and never drained out completely. She still carried some of the tears with her, even two years later. She didn't think of them as burdens. They were more like crystalline memories, refracting her emotions like light inside of her.

A few months later, after they had both stopped crying, she tried to explain this to Rowe. He told her she was a poet, and she told him she was a storyteller.

He told her that he didn't know there was a difference.

Later, when she thought about it, she decided that she agreed with him.

When she was eighteen, and Rowe was maybe thirty—because he never really shed those years that Nathaniel's death gave him—they traveled south to the dark lands to help a dying village.

If lying tasted like mildew and disappointment, then death tasted like the world's last breath—teeming with every lie ever told and every promise ever broken.

Most people did not fear death, though. They feared the inevitability of it.

She decided to not fear either one. Death was a promise in itself. _Leana mor'che dros vivte, ea Attu. _In death, we return to the true life.

She liked the idea of a promise that wouldn't be broken. It made the taste of death easier to bear.

She told Rowe about her decision, and he told her that there were worse things in life than death anyway. She asked him what he meant, and that peculiar shadow crossed his features. She changed the subject before his blue eyes could turn black again.

When she was nineteen, and Rowe was maybe thirty-one, she almost got burned as a witch twice in the same year. Rowe grew frustrated with the Inquisitor's lies, but she just liked to shape it into a story for the children. They needed to know that the truth always won in the end.

Maybe she wasn't a storyteller at all, but a truthteller.

It was the same year that Rowe spent almost two months in the Asherian dungeons. When he escaped, it was several days before the black in his eyes melted back into blue. In two months, he had gained two years. Now he was maybe thirty-three.

It was the same year that she met a prince who was also nineteen going on thirty-three, though in a different way than Rowe. She liked to tell him the real and honest truth, every chance she had, because every truth chipped away another year—thirty-two, thirty-one, thirty—until one day he was nineteen again, and he had remembered how to smile.

Rowe was different. He was thirty-three one day, and nineteen the next, because there was something about the princess that cut away the years like a sharp knife. His eyes were the bluest that Naima had ever seen them. Not a trace of black.

When she was nineteen and a half, she took a drink of water and knew immediately, before the taste of the desert gold had even left her mouth, that it was time to die. For some reason, this death tasted like old life. It was as if all the years she might have had rushed through her body like a river, and she was twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two—all the way to a hundred, and all in the space of one breath. Living a lifetime in the course of a heartbeat is more than living. It is _living_, and there is definitely a difference.

Pure poetry.

When Naima was a hundred years old, she died like she lived—with a smile on her lips and so much passion that it filled up her insides and spilled into the world, where the taste of it would linger for the rest of time.


	2. Perfection

_Her mother named her Estella, because on the night of her birth there were no stars in the sky. "My baby outshines them all," her mother said with a difficult smile, and died. _

_Five_

"Papa, I'd like to learn how to ride a horse." She held her breath and watched her father's expression carefully. She had been practicing the request all day, running through every possible objection and formulating a reply for each.

If he told her she was too young, she would tell him that Patrick had been riding since he was old enough to walk. If he told her there was no one to teach her, she would tell him that Patrick said he would. If he told her it was too dangerous, she would tell him that she wasn't afraid.

There was nothing her father could tell her that she wasn't ready for. In her mind, she was already riding a mare through the chilly Silvernian countryside. All the other children at court would be wildly jealous, and she would just ride and ride until she felt like coming home.

Her father's expression never wavered, and he barely glanced up from the papers on his desk.

"Sorry, dear. It isn't proper for a lady to ride a horse."

She didn't have an argument for that.

_She had inherited her mother's nobility and her father's eyes. She and her brother shared their drive. She had a sharp wit, a pretty face, and a clever smile. The court was her plaything. _

_Ten_

"Patrick, let me borrow your horse." She had learned to ride anyway, despite her father's reasoning—or perhaps because of it. Her determination had come from her mother's side.

"Not today, Stel. You have lessons, remember?"

"No."

"What do you mean, _no_?"

"I mean that I don't remember." She smiled winningly, showing all her teeth and batting her eyes. It was as close to _coy_ as she had managed thus far, but she was getting better.

"Don't make that face at _me_, and I just reminded you—so you had better go." He was seventeen, and he had long since taken on the role of extra guardianship that was lacking due to her mother's death.

"Really, Patrick, no one is going to blame little old me if I forget."

"Little old you, eh? You've been sitting in the Queen's sewing circle again, haven't you."

"Papa says it's healthy to form meaningful relationships with my betters."

"It's also healthy to attend your lessons."

"I promise that I'll consider it."

"Well, you aren't taking my horse, so you might as well."

She stuck her lower lip out in a pronounced pout. She had seen Lady Josslyn do it once when her husband refused to let her stay longer at the annual ball. In the end, he let her stay as long as she wanted.

Patrick remained utterly unmoved.

"I'll go sit with the Queen, then," Estella said. "She told me I could whenever I wanted to."

"I don't think she meant for you to neglect your lessons."

"I'm a _lady_, Patrick. I have certain _obligations _to her Majesty."

Patrick just shook his head. Estella thought she could see disappointment in his eyes, but she was too young to know how much that mattered to her.

She sat in the Queen's parlor for almost an hour, picking through her own mediocre embroidery, but mostly just listening to the court gossip. It flew through the air like thousands of butterflies, and she captured each one with relish. Everyone was so sophisticated in this room—especially the Queen herself. Her needle attacked the cloth with startling dexterity, and she was always laughing about something. It was a quaint, feminine laugh that Estella practiced in front of her mirror every night. The Queen was perfect, and perfect was exactly what Estella wanted to be.

Of course, perfection got tiring after a while, and she excused herself. She went to the stables, where the stablemaster Donovan kept everything running with military efficiency.

"Sorry, miss," he told her, as soon as she walked in. "Your brother was in here earlier, and he told me not to let you take Caden out today."

"That's fine, Donovan," she said smoothly, though on the inside she was fuming. She should have known that Patrick would guess her intentions. "I just wanted to see the horses."

She wandered around the stable for a while, patting the horses' noses and trying to concoct a feasible scheme to get around this new restriction. Her tunnel-vision had come from her father's side. At length, she grew tired of the smell of horse manure and left the stables.

Outside, she came across Sir Isaac, a recent knight and one of her brother's close friends. He looked to be in a terrible hurry. Immediately a plan came to her.

"Thank goodness!" she cried, perhaps more dramatically than was necessary. "Isaac, you have to help me."

"What's wrong?" he asked. Patrick would have detected her theatrics and become immediately suspicious, but Isaac was more gullible than her brother—especially when it came to damsels in distress. She had used this to her advantage on multiple occasions.

"Patrick needs Caden immediately, but I don't know how to saddle a horse."

"Where is Patrick?" His eyebrows furrowed slightly. He was skeptical. The Queen herself had taught Estella how to read people's faces. It was a useful skill for the court, and Estella had seen the Queen work wonders, simply by knowing what everyone was thinking.

"He's with Papa. He asked me to get Caden ready, and he was in such a hurry that I didn't want to say anything." She even squeezed out a tear, for effect.

She watched Isaac's eyes dart back and forth. He was considering.

"I really don't have time," he said finally, edging away from her toward the castle. "The king has called for me. Ask Donovan to help."

"I can't go in the _stable_," she said, throwing her hand against her forehead in the way that Lady Josslyn did when she was horrified by something improper. "I am a lady, and there are horses in there."

Isaac was immediately skeptical again, because he had known her in her younger days, when she had practically lived in the stable.

"I've been paying attention in my etiquette lessons," Estella added, to soothe his suspicions.

"Then I'll tell Donovan to saddle Caden and bring him out."

"No!" Estella cried, a bit too quickly. "You know how particular Patrick is about who deals with Caden. I don't want him to be upset with me." With concentration, she could make her lower lip tremble.

Isaac was won over. He went into the stable and brought out Caden, fully saddled, a few minutes later. It was all Estella could do to keep the victorious smile off her face.

"Tell Patrick he owes me one," Isaac told her. He handed off the reins and sprinted into the castle for his appointment with the king.

Estella led Caden to the low wooden fence around the pigsty, because she was too short to mount on her own. She stood on the fence and clambered into the saddle in a less than graceful manner.

The air tasted like triumph as she rode into the harshly beautiful Silvernian countryside, and she was too busy reveling in her success to notice the gathering rain clouds overhead.

The rain was falling in torrents by the time she realized that she might be in trouble. The castle was miles behind her, and she didn't know the land well enough to navigate to a village. She quickly lost all sense of time and direction, and the blanketing rain around her started to feel like a tomb.

Her middling horsemanship skills put Caden—who was accustomed to Patrick's expert lead—into a nervous frenzy. Despite her attempts at calming him, he pulled frantically at the bit and pranced sideways down the road. Estella almost slipped from the saddle, and she jerked back violently on the reins. Caden jumped backwards, and his back hooves met the loose gravel of a steep incline.

For Estella, it was all a blinding blur of rain and screaming and momentum and then a sudden muffled _crack_ that she hoped was thunder. Blackness pulled her under almost immediately.

She came to her senses minutes—or maybe it was hours—later. In any case, the rain was still drowning her. She was lying at the base of the incline, and a peculiar numbness had spread through her left leg. She looked down at it and promptly retched. Legs weren't supposed to be bent at that angle.

She looked around desperately and could barely make out the shape of Caden nearby. He was on his side, completely still and making a faint whining noise. Estella tried to move but was rewarded with excruciating pain from her toes to her neck.

She started to cry—loud, gasping sobs that quaked her chest. The movement made her leg hurt even more, and that made her cry harder. The rain kept falling in sheets, and for the first time in her life, the idea of death crawled into her head and wouldn't leave. She didn't want to die.

Her tears began to fall faster than the rain.

Nightfall came at an agonizingly slow pace and brought with it Silvern's characteristic chill. Estella had to stop crying, because shivering took up all her energy. Her head started to grow fuzzy, and she drifted in and out of consciousness like a clock's swinging pendulum.

At one point she came to, and Patrick's face filled her vision. He was soaking wet, and she knew it wasn't a dream this time. She tried to say his name, but her lips were numb. The rain kept falling, and her vision blurred again.

The next time she woke, she could hear voices.

"—save Caden. Sorry, Patrick. We'll have to put him out."

"Do it then—quickly." Patrick's voice was hard and tight, and she could feel his hands beneath her, moving her onto a firm surface. She wanted to shout at them to stop, because it simply wasn't fair. Because Patrick loved Caden.

Because she hadn't meant for any of this to happen.

Her tongue couldn't shape the words, and rain filled her mouth. Patrick threw his cloak over her, and she caught a quick glimpse of his eyes. They were hard and tight, like his voice. There was worry there, but also disappointment.

For the first time, she was old enough to know how much that mattered to her.

_Upon her brother's knighting, her status in court was elevated immensely. She became the Queen's favorite, and, as the young Queen's confidant, her sweet charms blossomed into sharp-witted savvy. This soon evolved into feminine wiles. She had jet black hair that fell down her back in glossy waves. She could twirl one strand around her finger and flash that practiced coy smile—and every lord in the court was quickly in love. _

_Fifteen_

"My most noble and beautiful lady, I beg that you would not vex me with your apparent disregard. Pray, tell me your true feelings, so that my heart might rest."

As Estella stared at the young lord who knelt before her, she was filled with a mixture of pity, disgust, and amusement. She shifted her position on the stone bench so that her knee stabbed him directly in the chest.

"Don't torment me, milord," she said. "Your flattery and pretty words do nothing for me. A lady desires reassurance of her position in a man's heart, and I have heard nothing from you but empty claims."

"I have a ring, your ladyship. I would gladly put it on your finger this moment and in the next proclaim to the world our betrothal."

Estella's lips curled upward slightly. The second proposal today, though the first had left something to be desired.

"Pray do so then, milord," she said lightly.

His face flushed three shades of red, and she could tell that he hadn't expected such an immediate answer.

"Gladly, milady," he managed. "Except…"

"Yes?" Estella prompted, artfully keeping her impatience with the whole matter out of her voice.

"'Tis a ring of great value—my dearly departed grandmother's. Apparently, my cousin has designs of his own with the ring, and we are set to duel for the property tomorrow."

"I see," Estella said guardedly, drawing back.

"But I will surely be victorious," the lord said quickly. "Especially since it is your beauty that guides me."

"In that case," Estella drew out her handkerchief from her sleeve. "Pray keep this favor close to your heart. If you are indeed the victor, then my father will have no objections to our betrothal."

"I shall never doubt your constancy again, milady."

Estella couldn't help but smile.

Later, in the Queen's private chambers, she related the events of the day with all the relish of a conquering knight.

"Lord William and Lord Godfrey—to duel? How exciting." The Queen set down her embroidery and clasped her hands together over her conspicuously round belly. "I simply must attend."

"My father could not have orchestrated a better match for me," Estella said proudly.

"Of course not, dear. That's why I insisted on overseeing your personal matters."

"So you approve?" Estella asked eagerly.

"I could not have done better myself." The Queen smiled her perfect smile, and Estella matched it. Courtiers often remarked on their similarities in carriage and speech.

Since her youth, Estella had planned on modeling her life after the Queen's in every aspect—even the child that weighed heavily in her womb.

The Queen's life was perfect, Estella reasoned, so hers would be too. The Queen knew how to manipulate every circumstance to her advantage, and Estella was an adept learner. She would not settle for anything less than perfection. Her resolve had come from her father's side.

Duels among nobility were mechanical, well-ordered, and fought to the first blood—though anything more serious than a scratch was rare. They were certainly not events that called for any sort of pomp and circumstance, though the Queen arrived to this particular duel with plenty of both. Everyone half-expected her to be there, as everyone knew the special favor she had for Lady Estella, and Lady Estella's stake in this duel was no secret at all.

Estella arrived shortly after her Majesty and mounted the steps onto the spectators' dais with all the grace of royalty. Her glorious locks were especially at an advantage against the deep red of her gown. The black of her hair seemed to draw all sunlight to her person and swallow it whole. She did not spare a glance to either of the duelers.

The duel began without ceremony and ended without excitement. Lord William was by far the better swordsman. He exchanged the customary bow with his opponent and shot Lady Estella a triumphant smile. She responded with a subdued smile of her own.

Lord William was immediately surrounded by his congratulatory kinsman, and Lord Godfrey approached Estella.

"My fairest lady," he cried, falling to one knee. "I beg you not to withdraw your favor from me because of this single misfortune. I swear to you that I will find a hundred other ways to prove my undying—"

"Knave!" Lord William shouted, as he caught sight of Lord Godfrey. "Stand away from the lady, for she certainly has no business with you."

"You are mistaken, good sir," Godfrey said coldly, rising to his feet. "The lady and I have an accord."

"I will hear no such lies," William snapped.

Both men glanced at Estella. She looked between them with an expression of blithe innocence, and their suspicious glares locked on each other once more. Simultaneously, the men reached into their vests and brought out identical handkerchiefs, both with Estella's initials stitched neatly in the corner.

All was silent for several seconds.

"Oh dear," Lady Estella said, because she knew what was coming next, and she had hoped it wouldn't come to that.

"Thief!" The two lords howled in the same breath, and they dove at each other in righteous and ungentlemanly indignation.

Estella settled back in her chair and reflected smugly on the entire situation. No one could blame her for playing the two against each other. It certainly wasn't her fault that they had both proposed, and she couldn't settle for anything less than the best possible match. Even the Queen had been enthused by the ingenious plan. Right now she patted Estella's hand and laughed softly—her lilted, perfect laugh that Estella had been practicing for years.

The two men kept brawling, oblivious to the entreaties of their friends, until the General himself came into the courtyard to see what the ruckus was. His voice echoed across the courtyard as he ordered the lords to stop immediately. He even grabbed William by the back of his shirt and hauled him backwards several steps.

"The Queen does not need to see such a spectacle in her condition," he said sharply.

The men looked at their feet, thoroughly chastised. General Grey was technically below them in rank, but he was never one to heed titles, and he was not a man to be trifled with.

"Thank you, General," the Queen said gaily, rubbing her protruding belly. She had not seemed at all put off by the scuffle—condition or no—but she and General Grey were on good terms, and it was only polite to acknowledge his effort.

The two lords mumbled their apologies to her Majesty and the other ladies present. They left the courtyard dejectedly, but not without casting confused glances toward Lady Estella. She ignored them both, for now.

The Queen descended the dais first, supported on either side by her ladies-in-waiting. Lady Estella followed closely behind, dropping the necessary curtsy to the General as she passed. He acknowledged her but seemed distracted, as he often did.

Estella almost made it indoors, but a hand on her arm caused her to stop.

"Patrick, lovely to see you," she said. She had to force her brightness, because she recognized the look on his face.

"Stel, what was that?" he asked, cutting straight to the point, like always.

"What, dear?" She fiddled with a string of her hair and watched wistfully as the last of the Queen's entourage disappeared safely indoors.

"Don't _dear_ me. You know perfectly well what I'm talking about." He had lost patience with her antics years ago, directly after he had to watch his favorite horse put out of its misery.

Estella glanced skyward and sighed.

"Really, Patrick, you can hardly blame me. You and father give absolutely no thought to my future, and someone has to."

"Father hired the best tutors for you—that's a better education than some of the lords receive."

"I'm not a _lord_. I am a lady." She tossed her hair primly over her shoulder. "A lady must secure a proper marriage."

Patrick stared at her in blank silence.

"Don't look at me like that!" she cried, brushing past him.

Patrick fell into step beside her.

"You act as if none of this is important," Estella continued in an accusatory tone. "Father has the estate to tend to. You have your knightly duties. A lady doesn't inherit estate or become a knight. I don't have anything but _this_."

"Nothing else is important to you?"

Estella thought about the Queen, with her swollen belly and perfect laugh. She thought about her own long nights in front of the mirror, telling herself repeatedly that she would have that perfection one day. It was more than a desire—it was an obsession.

"Nothing," she said firmly, and not even the disappointment in her brother's eyes could change her mind.

_She married neither Lord William nor Lord Godfrey. There was something within her that pushed her to wait for something better. Why not a duke? Or even a prince? The years had not lessened the Queen's favor, but rather strengthened it to a bond close to sisterhood. As the Queen's favorite, there was very little outside of her grasp. Her life seemed destined for the perfection that she longed for. _

_Twenty_

The birthing chamber was dark and suffocating with pain, sweat, and blood. The Queen had been sickly ever since her second child—a healthy girl—and the coming of her third was straining her to the point of death.

"Almost, your highness, almost!" the midwife said. Her expression was taut and grim.

Anyone could see that the Queen was weakening steadily.

Estella swallowed hard and gripped the Queen's hand between both of her own. She had been present at the birth of the Queen's other two children, but neither had been this difficult in coming.

"A boy!" the midwife announced, after what seemed like years. She took the slimy red infant into her arms.

The Queen's hand was limp in Estella's, and she looked at her with eyes that were infinitely wearied.

"I wish this for you," she said. Her voice was raspy from her screaming. "There is no greater joy."

Estella wanted to believe her, but then the Queen's eyes rolled back into her head, and after a few more ragged breaths she fell silent. The Queen of Silvern did not breathe again.

"The child is stillborn," the midwife said quietly, as she wrapped the lifeless infant in a clean cloth. There was no emotion in her voice. She had seen this too many times to count.

Estella found that her own breaths were short. For only the second time in her life, death was inside her head, blackening the fantasies of her perfect future. She looked at the tiny lump in the midwife's arms—the Queen's final gift to the world—a child that would never breathe air.

She looked at the Queen, who was soundless in eternal slumber after only twenty-five years on the earth. She saw a woman of immense beauty, who had lived a life of seeming perfection, who had dedicated every part of herself to that perfection.

Then, quite suddenly, she wasn't seeing the Queen at all. She only saw herself.

She dropped the Queen's hand and fled the room. News of the Queen's death flew through the corridor behind her, and the gossip spread like wildfire.

"_Rest her soul, the poor dear."_

"_She was so lovely."_

"_I imagine the King will marry his mistress now."_

"_Hush, you. Lady Estella is not his mistress. She was the Queen's favorite." _

"_All the more convenient."_

"_Hush."_

"_He'll have designs on her, regardless. If she plays her cards right, she could be queen come spring."_

"_Every girl's dream—hers especially, I imagine."_

Midnight found Lady Estella alone in her room, shivering from something other than the cold. The sewing scissors in her hand were familiar and oddly comforting. Her reflection in the mirror was neither.

_Every girl's dream. _But it was more than a dream for her. It was an obsession, and she had been granted a rare gift. She saw where it would take her.

She stared into her own eyes for an immeasurable length of time. All she could see was that terrible moment, replaying over and over and over. One moment the Queen was alive, with the world at her fingertips, and the next she was dead. Her thoughts fought ferociously in her mind until her image in the mirror had become a blur of welling tears and confusion.

Finally, without ceremony, Estella brought the scissors to her head and chopped at her ebony locks until they were nothing but a tangled mound of black around her feet. All that remained on her head was a thin, uneven layer of hair. She might not pass as a boy, but she would never be mistaken as a lady again.

Her scalp felt odd—light and empty. She ran her fingers over the shockingly short remains of her once most glorious feature and tried not to shed any tears. She was losing nothing.

Hours later, she was waiting in the dark outside the stables, watching as a troop of knights returned from a recent excursion to the mining towns. They led their horses into the stable on foot, conversing in low tones. None of them seemed to notice her. She supposed that she blended into the shadows. Though, in some ways, she thought that maybe she wasn't standing there at all. The lightness of her scalp had extended to her limbs and torso, until she couldn't feel any weight at all.

Lady Estella was not standing outside the stables. Only her ghost lingered—just a faint memory. Lady Estella had been left behind in the dead Queen's birthing chamber, because that was where the life she had chosen would inevitably end.

Patrick was the last in the line of knights. He paused before entering the stables, as if sensing something amiss. He looked left, looked right, and saw her immediately, despite the darkness. That's how she knew that some small part of her still existed, because Patrick had always been able to see her—really see her.

"Stel?" he asked, in obvious surprise.

"Patrick, I'm leaving. I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back." Her words felt insubstantial, at best. "I'm leaving."

She stepped into the moonlight and watched his eyes widen with shock at her newly shorn hair.

"Stel, what did you—"

"I'm leaving," she said again. The repetition lent the words some veracity.

Patrick glanced toward the stable. His comrades were all inside. Someone was telling a loud, bawdy joke, and all of them were oblivious to the crisis playing out in the courtyard.

"What's going on?" He looked back at her.

"The Queen is dead," she said, barely above a whisper.

"_What_?"

"Her child is stillborn. I have to leave, Patrick. I thought I wanted this, but I don't—I can't—I just—" Coherency escaped her, and she was ten again, drowning in tears and terror.

Patrick dropped his horse's reins and pulled her into an embrace—something she had not allowed him to do for many years. It simply wasn't ladylike. She sobbed into his shoulder for a full minute—loud, _un_ladylike sobs.

It was strangely freeing.

"I need your horse," she said suddenly, pulling away and wiping her face on her sleeve.

"Stel, you should think about this," he urged. "Get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

"No," she snapped. "I can't stay another minute. Tomorrow they'll be talking again, and I can't…I can't be a part of it anymore."

"But where will you go? You've never traveled on your own before."

"Patrick, please, don't."

Reason had no place here. She knew that more than anything else. Reason would send her back indoors to her nice warm bed. Reason would wake her up tomorrow for a period of proper mourning. Reason would drive her to earn the king's good graces, to strive for a prize with consequences that she could not bear.

"I don't understand," Patrick said, shaking his head.

"I just have to find something else that is important to me."

He stared at her for a long while in that blank silence of his that she had never been able to decipher.

"It's not my horse," he said finally. "It is technically the king's."

"Tell him I stole it," she said, grabbing the reins.

"You haven't ridden in years."

"I'll manage." She hoisted herself ungracefully onto the horse and tried to bite back the mild panic that came from being in a saddle again.

"I can't believe you're doing this," her brother said softly.

She looked down at him, suddenly terrified that his eyes would still be tinged with disappointment, as they had been since that night with Caden. She could see that there was sadness in them, but not a hint of disappointment—quite the opposite, actually. She smiled.

"Here, take this." Patrick unbuckled his sword belt and attached it to the saddle.

"I've never held a sword in my life!"

"The sight of it will keep bandits away, and who knows—maybe someday you'll learn."

"But it's your only sword. What about—"

"I'll just tell everyone you stole it," he said, with a short laugh. "By tomorrow, you'll be infamous."

"Thank you, Patrick." She meant so much more than "Thank you," but no other words would form.

"Take care of yourself, Stel."

She could hear the words he wasn't saying as clearly as if they were ringing from the heavens. Inexplicably, confidence swelled within her. She rode away without another word, because "I love you" hurt too much. Because "Goodbye" sounded like forever.

_She faced hardship and toil with her mother's determination and her father's resolve. It was the Tevouins who finally captured her wandering heart, and on the night she arrived in the Great Desert the sky was ablaze with stars. Many knew who she was, and she didn't attempt to conceal the truth. But the real truth was that Lady Estella had never left the Queen of Silvern's deathbed. The Tevouins called her Astra. _

_Twenty-five_

He was sickeningly thin when he stumbled into the Tevouin camp, and Astra was the first to see him. He might as well have been a skeleton, because death clung to him like a second skin.

Astra knew what death looked like; she had seen it enough to know. It had a taste too—one that made the air sharp and gritty, like she was chewing on broken glass. He was maybe eight or nine, and she could count his ribs through his thin and travel-shredded shirt.

He wouldn't let her touch him. He just stared at her with sunken, frightened eyes, and Astra remembered the tales of Tevouin barbarism that ran rampant through the "civilized" world.

"You don't have to be afraid," she told him. "My name is Astra."

He took a long time in answering her, while his hollow blue eyes took in his surroundings with animalistic dread.

"Roland," he spit out finally, through impossibly dry lips. "My name…" He started to cough violently—dry heaves that shook his frame to the point of breaking.

Astra dove into action, using one hand to support him and the other to thrust her waterskin to his mouth. They sank down to the hot sand together, and Astra held him as a mother would her son. The course of her life had not granted her any children of her own, but the Tevouins had plenty of orphans who needed a mother. Astra wasn't sure when it had first happened, or which child was the first to fall under her care—she only knew that nothing felt more right.

"You don't have to be afraid," she said again, when his coughing had quieted.

He looked at her without speaking. The sharp blue of his eyes seemed blackened by whatever secrets had led him here.

"Astra, who is it?" A small voice rang in her ear.

Astra turned her head to see Naima's hazel eyes, dancing with curiosity. The young girl was kneeling behind her and peering cautiously over Astra's shoulder to see the new arrival.

"A new addition to the family," Astra said with a smile. She glanced back at the boy. "His name is—"

The intense panic in his eyes cut her short. All of a sudden, Astra was struck with a vague memory of her life before all of this. She was maybe nineteen and on a rare visit to the Asherian royal court. Queen Evelyn was a lovely—if somewhat taciturn—hostess, and they had spent hours in the garden watching her two toddlers scurry about vivaciously while the Queen rested the youngest—a baby girl—on her knee.

"_And what is the name of the eldest, your highness?"_

"_Roland." _

"_He has your eyes." _

He still had his mother's eyes. The deep blue stood out in Astra's memory as if it had been painted across her mind's eye. Abruptly, she realized why the boy was so terrified of anyone else knowing his name.

"His name is Rowe," she told Naima.

The panic in his eyes dwindled into a calmer uneasiness, and something wordless and lasting passed between him and Astra. It was a bond, but also something more—a promise. His secret was safe.

_Ten years passed in a heartbeat, but it felt like a lifetime. She had found something worth living for—molding a generation that had the strength to truly live, to wholly love, and to finally challenge the evil that had thrived for too long. By the time a zealot's poison stole her final breaths, she was more than a Tevouin who had once been a lady. She was a luminary, teacher, and friend. She was a daughter, a sister, and a mother—so irrevocably herself that it was as if Lady Estella had never existed at all. _

_

* * *

_**A/N: Read Henrik Ibsen's _A Doll's House_. Then you'll understand. **


	3. Not Quite Deleted Scene

_(Author's Note: This is a scene that didn't make it into the final cut for two reasons: One, it is a bit on the cheesy side, and two, it didn't fit well into the plot narrative_. _However, I'm not classifying it as a "deleted scene", per se, because I like it, and I'm assuming that it happened in the untold narrative. So you can assume that as well, if you so desire. It fits somewhere into the third to last chapter, but it's pretty stand-alone and I'm sure you'll figure out the timeline on your own without too much trouble.)_

_

* * *

  
_

The sunrise on the seventh day in the Month of the Phoenix was especially glorious. There was warmth, peace, and hope in the air, and spirits were unusually high around the Asherian castle. Drake tried to embrace the atmosphere as he stood in the courtyard, watching the Tevouins and his sister prepare to depart. He found that he could embrace nothing but a deep-seated dread at losing his sister once and for all.

Someone came up beside him and stood in silence. Drake looked out the corner of his eye; it was Rowe. They both remained quiet for a long while, until finally Drake spoke.

"I still don't like you."

Something like a smile tugged at the corner of Rowe's mouth, but he didn't reply. Drake took the silence as a challenge and continued.

"You're cocky, stubborn, presumptuous, completely without tact, and I'm wholly convinced that you'll get both yourself and my sister killed one day." He paused for a second before finishing. "And you give me a headache."

Rowe seemed to consider his words for a few seconds. At length, he turned to look at Drake.

"My, what a very presumptuous and tactless thing of you to say." There was a smirk playing on his features.

Drake glowered.

"We are _nothing_ alike," he said hotly.

Rowe shrugged, unconvinced.

"Maybe. But we do have at least one thing in common." He gestured toward the center of the courtyard, where Ravyn was saddling her horse and laughing at something one of the Tevouins had just said.

Drake softened barely.

"You're her brother," Rowe said. "You're not supposed to like me. We're supposed to bicker endlessly and ruin all the family reunions."

Drake smiled.

"Point taken," he said. "But if you hurt her, I'll kill you."

"See, now you're catching on." Rowe laughed shortly and clapped him on the back.

Drake looked at him pointedly.

"This is the part where you reassure me that you love her more than life, and you would never hurt her."

Rowe glanced once at Ravyn, who was still laughing. He smiled.

"That's one thing you'll never have to worry about."

Drake saw the deep sincerity in his face and felt strangely relieved. Suddenly, he was confronted with the notion that the worst really was behind them.

It was a comforting thought.


	4. Deleted Chapter

**(UBER IMPORTANT Author's Note: **_I was a little loath to post this, because it really is a deleted chapter. What happens in here never actually happened in the story, because I revamped the plot. So all the bits and pieces you read about Drake's plan, returning to Asher, ten day deadline, etc. is all bunk_ _and irrelevant. So why did I decide to post this, even though it is hopelessly fragmented and completely irrelevant to _Arranged_? Well, I really like some of the character interactions and insights that came through, and I really regret that I couldn't fit them into the story another way. _

_So, the **rules for reading this supplement** are as follows: (1) If something is mentioned here that you don't remember from the story, then it probably didn't happen in the story (unless you have a bad memory). (2) This occurs around the time that Saria and Rhodry were ecaping from the Port Town. I took out those parts, since you read them in _Arranged_, which explains the fragmented nature of this "chapter". (3) I think it's safe to assume that _pieces_ of the following conversations might have happened in the untold narrative of _Arranged_, and maybe if I ever get around to a rewrite, they'll make it into the actual narrative. (4) If you're confused, just ask!_

_-deep breath- I hope posting this isn't a horrible mistake that will confuse everyone to no end and shame me forever....but enjoy!_

* * *

_I here swear fealty to Asher and her people, to ever be a good knight and true, reverent and generous, shield of the weak, foremost in battle, courteous at all times, champion of the right and good. I here swear this in the sight of the Crown and the Blessed One, a solemn and eternal oath that neither time nor circumstance can overcome._

_--Oath of fealty for an Asherian knight_

The only problem with Drake's plan was that it would most probably fail. To Sir Cedric's dismay, no one seemed quite as concerned about this as he was. In response to his worry, the Tevouins had only stared blankly, with the look of people who'd had the odds stacked against them their entire lives. Really, to them, this situation was nothing out of the ordinary.

"There are barely a hundred trained fighters left in the Tevouin ranks. If they go up against Cyrus's troops they'll be slaughtered," Drake told Cedric, sounding just as logical and objective as he had been seven years ago, at age twelve, when Cedric had visited the Silvernian royal court.

The young prince had explained to him, quite seriously, the specific legal and political ramifications of not addressing the frog to snake ratio in the castle gardens. The boy had been so earnest about the matter that Cedric couldn't help but believe him.

"But what of all the rumors? Don't they have magic and poison arrows and—"

"Sometimes rumors are just that," Drake interrupted briskly.

He had been surprised as well when he'd learned that the Tevouins hadn't poisoned their arrows for at least two generations, and so when Rowe had given up the antidote at the castle he hadn't been giving up anything of merit. Drake had based a lot of his prejudice against Rowe on that misconception, and as of yet he was unwilling to rethink his view of the Tevouin captain.

"They should run, then," Cedric said. "With such small numbers, they can easily avoid the army."

Drake took a deep breath and glanced around the camp.

"If we run now, we'll always be running," he said quietly.

"We?" Cedric repeated incredulously. "You're the Silvernian prince, not a Tevouin."

"I _used_ to be a prince," Drake snapped. "Now—" He caught himself and looked around the camp again, contemplating with a slight frown on his features. "Well, the Tevouins have never tried to trade me into marriage or have me murdered, so I'll take my chances with them," he finished decisively.

The gravity in his expression echoed that of the young prince seven years ago, and Sir Cedric knew that Drake was as firm in this as he had once been in his belief that frogs and snakes could affect the balance of the kingdom. His years and his circumstances had altered his concerns, but his intensity remained unwavering.

"We'll need your help," Drake told him.

Cedric hesitated, thinking of the death warrant that still loomed over his head. Returning to the Asherian castle now would be suicide. Drake was watching him solemnly, and Sir Cedric slowly remembered that they weren't talking about garden animals here, and a kingdom really did hang in the balance. He had not sworn his oath of fealty to King Cyrus, but to Asher.

"I'll help you," he promised.

Drake came dangerously close to smiling.

* * *

Dawn broke warily on the thirteenth day in the Month of the Lilac. The Tevouin camp was almost completely packed away. Soon they would move on, and all that would remain of their presence at the southeastern oasis would be footprints in the sand and an abandoned hammock swaying forlornly over the waterfall.

"You have ten days," Drake reminded Rowe, who was saddling his horse.

"I'll be there," Rowe said, looking unconcerned as he shoved a couple of extra daggers in his saddle bag for good measure.

"If you don't make it, then everything is lost. We—"

"I'll _be_ there," Rowe repeated, with a hint of irritation.

Drake decided to ignore his tone.

"Good. Now where is—"

"I'm right here," Kylie announced as she led her horse over. "But don't think I'm happy about it," she added, glancing pointedly between Drake and Rowe.

"You know," Rowe said to Drake, purposefully ignoring Kylie. "She doesn't have to come with me. I'm perfectly capable of—"

"Getting yourself killed and ruining everything?" Kylie interrupted, putting her hand on her hip and cocking her eyebrows.

"Well, if keeping me alive is the goal here, then you're the _least_ capable person for the job," Rowe replied tersely. "Danni should come. At least she's useful."

"Danni can't go," Drake said with admirable patience. "Remember, one captain for each—"

"I know, I know," Rowe muttered. "I'm just saying."

He checked the contents of his saddle bags one last time and decided that he needed another knife. Four wasn't enough.

"I'll be right back," he said, then shot Kylie a sharp glare. "Stay away from my horse."

Kylie didn't even bother trying to look innocent. Rowe took deep, measured breaths as he walked away, reminding himself that it was all for the Tevouins—for his family.

"Are you two going to be all right?" Drake asked, once Rowe had left.

Kylie shrugged. Drake chewed ponderously on his bottom lip for a few seconds, watching his sister step into Rowe's path. They were too far away for him to hear what was being said, but he could see that Ravyn was frowning with worry. Their fingers were interlaced, and even from a distance the moment was undoubtedly intimate. Drake took a deep breath and looked away.

Kylie was watching him from the corner of her eyes as she cinched the straps on her saddle.

"Something wrong?" she asked casually.

Drake shook his head.

"Look, _I _don't care for Rowe, but for some reason my sister does." Drake sighed raggedly and rubbed the back of his neck. "Could you just make sure that he makes it back in one piece, for Ravyn's sake?"

Kylie smiled tightly.

"Rowe and I may not get along, but we're Tevouins, and that makes us family. I've got his back, and he's got mine." Kylie deftly loosened Rowe's saddle straps so that it would slip when he tried to mount. With any luck he would land flat on his backside.

"Well, when it counts, anyway," she added, as an afterthought.

Drake couldn't help but share her smile.

* * *

"I wish you didn't have to be the one to go," Ravyn said quietly, savoring the weight of Rowe's hand in hers.

"Why? Are you afraid that Kylie and I will fall madly in love and ride off into the sunset?" Rowe grinned. He was clearly amused by the notion.

"I'm not worried about that," Ravyn replied, also amused. "Kylie is probably the only female in this camp that would punch you sooner than kiss you."

"Well, as long as she's the only one." Rowe winked.

"I said _probably_."

"So what about you?"

Ravyn smiled.

"I'm still deciding."

Over Rowe's shoulder, she could see Drake and Kylie watching them impatiently. An unhappy sense of urgency overtook her.

"Remember, you only have ten days," she said, suddenly serious.

"Don't worry. I've heard that so much in the past half hour that I'll never be able to forget it." Rowe shot a glare over his shoulder toward Drake.

Ravyn sighed.

"He means well."

"I'm sure he does, but that doesn't make him any less annoying. I mean, look at Naima—" Rowe broke off and looked down. All humor had drained from his face.

Ravyn bit her lip and squeezed his hand more tightly.

"Is it bad that I'm ready to get away from here?" he wondered softly. "It's so…stifling."

Ravyn realized that they had yet to talk about last week, when he had told her the secret of his past and then walked away, leaving her standing alone in the rain.

"Rowe, are you going to be okay?" Ravyn asked. "I mean, _really_?"

Rowe was silent in thought for several moments. He knew she wasn't talking about his upcoming venture, but rather the tumultuous guilt and regret that wracked his spirit.

"I'll make it through," he said finally.

Ravyn looked him dubiously in the eye, unconvinced.

"I'll make it through," Rowe repeated, with more conviction. "I promise."

Ravyn stared for a few more seconds, but finally nodded.

"Good," she said. "I guess you should be going then."

"I guess so." Rowe lingered.

"Is something wrong?"

"No." Rowe hesitated. "I just really want to kiss you right now."

Ravyn bit back a smile.

"Why don't you?"

"Well," Rowe glanced cautiously over his shoulder. "Your brother is watching—or glaring, more specifically."

"If you do kiss me, he'll probably hurt you."

"He can try." Rowe chuckled, but only planted a brief kiss on the back of her hand—just in case. "I'll see you in…how many days was it again? Twelve? Thirteen?"

"Please just come back in one piece," Ravyn said.

"And risk disappointing your brother? Never." Rowe grinned and left.

Ravyn smiled contentedly and allowed herself to think that the worst of things was over, though some part of her knew that the storm had really just begun.


	5. The Poet Ettne

_For the silver-tongued maiden, whose right hook is probably more formidable than she realizes. _

*

*

*

As time is measured now, the date was almost two years prior the month of freedom. Monarchy still held its sway over civilization, and the Tevouins were still desert devils that prowled the red sands. It was winter, and Asher shivered at the mercy of the eastern winds. This winter was colder than last, depositing a frost on the browning grass that shimmered in the sunrise.

The quiet morning was interrupted by the steady crunching of horse hooves on a dirt path. The King's Highway was several miles east and ran parallel to the obsolete path, but the two riders didn't seem interested in the more populated road, which would be crowded with travelers by the time the noonday sun thawed the frost's icy grip. Instead the riders, side by side, nudged their horses steadily southward, despite the ruts and erosion that time had wrought on their road.

Both were wrapped tightly in dark woolen cloaks with hoods that blocked their ears from the chill, but the female's feet, dangling freely outside the stirrups, were bare and pink with cold. This fact did not go unnoticed.

"Nai, are you _trying_ to catch your death? Where are your shoes?" Rowe tried to shoot her a scolding glare, but she only had eyes for the sunrise.

"Saddlebags—not cold," she said vaguely, waving away his concerns. "Isn't that the prettiest shade of violet you've ever seen?"

"I hadn't noticed. How long have you been barefoot?"

"Since five minutes after we left." She giggled suddenly and looked at him. "It seems you don't notice a lot of things."

Rowe was not amused, but he also knew a lost argument when he saw one.

"If your feet fall off, I'm not carrying you anywhere," he muttered.

Naima giggled again.

"We'll be home soon anyway, darling."

"Not soon enough. I'm getting tired of these spontaneous trips into the heart of Asher, where people would sooner murder us than look at us."

"I had to come! The miller's children in Dunn's Hill were sick again, and—"

"I know, I know," Rowe said, rolling his eyes heavenward. "Somebody was sick, and somebody else was sad about it, and you're the only person in the _country_ who can help, despite the fact that there's a _doctor_ in Dunn's Hill, who—"

"He doesn't know a thing about it, poor dear. The children get dry fever so often at the camp that I can remedy it in a heartbeat. I don't see why I shouldn't help if I can."

"Were you completely oblivious to that Inquisitor? He was in the town square all day, damning you as a witch to anyone who would listen."

"And it all came to naught."

"Because I told him I'd chop off his hands if he even thought about staking you."

"You shouldn't have; he was only…" A wind picked up around her suddenly, blowing off her hood. She reigned in her horse abruptly, obviously confounded.

"What's wrong?" Rowe stopped beside her, untouched by the wind, though by now it was blowing Naima's brown locks around her face in a frenzy.

"I don't know, but they're awfully excited about something—calm down, darlings, just calm down!" She threw up both hands, as if holding something at bay. The unearthly wind was starting to unsettle her horse.

Her hair fell limp around her face, and she sighed with relief. Rowe waited patiently to see if she had anything to say to her unseen friends, but the one-sided conversation seemed to be over.

"What was that about?" he asked at length.

Naima shook her head.

"They're dreadfully hard to understand when they are in an uproar like that, but I imagine it had something to do with him."

She pointed. A hundred yards ahead, there was a man lying flat on his back in the middle of the path. At least, it resembled a man. It was difficult to tell, as he was mostly covered by a densely patched cloak. He wasn't moving.

Rowe dismounted and ventured forward, resting his hand on his sword hilt for comfort's sake. Naima followed.

"Do you suppose he's dead?" Rowe wondered aloud.

As if in reply, the shape beneath the cloak grunted and popped his head out. He stared in shock at the two Tevouins, giving the impression that they had arrived unannounced in his bedchamber instead of coming across him in the middle of the road. His eyes, deep-set and reddened at the rims, were the color of the winter's slate sky.

"Hello," Naima said helpfully, since no other conversation seemed to be forthcoming.

The word spurred the man into movement. He clambered out from beneath the cloak and kicked it for no readily apparent reason. There was a muffled clink, and he winced, but ignored it for the time being. He was a shamefully shabby creature, short and narrow and wrinkled from head to toe. The creases in his face echoed more hardship than age, and his head of matted brown curls and corresponding beard only boasted a few strands of gray.

"A greeting, pale as morning, but heavy as hope renewed. It's this heavy hope that brings a color to the dew." Was his rather unorthodox reply.

Rowe and Naima stared back in baffled silence. Perhaps he took that as encouragement, because he continued.

"Unparalleled in silence, overtaken by an undertaking in the sweet wilderness of thought. These open roads of inner self are rarely followed, for they take us where we should go, but never where we ought."

More silence followed. Finally, Rowe felt compelled to speak, so he asked the only sensible thing that came to mind.

"Are you…talking in verse?"

"Am I?" The man scratched the back of his head in bewilderment. "How strange."

"Indeed," Naima said cheerfully.

"Indeed," the man echoed. His grimy cheeks, raw and pink from the cold, were slowly flushing scarlet from embarrassment. He considered Naima and Rowe for a moment, and then pounced on his cloak, wrestling with it until it released the object that had clinked earlier.

"Pray tell, why were you sleeping in the middle of the road?" Rowe watched him yank the cork from the bottle of ale with his teeth and suspected that his question had just been answered.

"I am a slave to my art," the man replied succinctly, perhaps to be pithy, or perhaps so that he could sooner take a long swig. "I am the poet Ettne," he said, rather grandiosely, when he came up for air.

"You're certainly a slave to something," Naima said, observing as he downed the rest of the bottle in one gulp.

Ettne wiped his mouth and frowned at her.

"I only drink from necessity," he said convincingly. "For my poetry."

"You can only write poems when you're drunk?" Naima asked skeptically.

"No," he replied, looking shocked at the idea. "I can only write when I'm sober."

"It's rather hard to make a living as a poet then, if you make a habit of passing out drunk in the middle of the road," Rowe said dryly.

"It's rather hard to make a living as a poet anyway."

"But surely it isn't good for your health," Naima said.

"Of course it isn't." Ettne struck a martyr's pose, clutching his heart and staring valiantly heavenward. "Poetry is a powerful gift. Were I to let it flow unchecked—well, the results would be disastrous."

"We would have more terrible poems in the world, for starters," Rowe said.

"Sir, you insult me," Ettne said. He seemed prepared to demand a duel, but thought better of it—maybe because they were Tevouins and therefore deadly by definition, or maybe simply because Rowe was armed and two heads taller. "I'll admit that those verses upon our meeting were not the epitome of my genius, but I am still…"

He paused, looking at Naima, and then he leaned in toward Rowe with an exaggerated whisper. "I'm still a bit drunk, but don't tell the lady."

Rowe rolled his eyes, and Naima somehow managed to giggle and look disapproving at the same time.

"You really shouldn't be sleeping out of doors in the winter," she said. "You could very well freeze to death."

Ettne glanced at her bare feet and then at Rowe, who shrugged in reply to the unstated comment.

"Dear lady, there is precious little time to be had in this life," Ettne said. "I refuse to waste it indoors, where sweet nature cannot find me with her inspiration."

"I see."

"And there are surprisingly few taverns and inns that take poetry as a form of payment—I have yet to find one, in fact."

"Pity," Rowe said with a smile. "However do you manage to stay soused enough to protect the world from your beautiful and terrible gift?"

"It is a difficult road to travel, my friend," Ettne said seriously. "A difficult burden to bear."

Naima started giggling again, and Ettne seemed confused as to whether or not to be offended.

"Sorry, darling," she said, composing herself. "Now, you must be starving. Perhaps if we get some food in your stomach you'll be able to share a proper poem with us."

"Naima," Rowe began warningly. They'd had discussions before about her penchant for adopting people like stray animals, not that the discussions ever changed anything.

"Don't be ridiculous, Rowe," Naima said. "We have plenty of food in the saddlebags, and it will only delay us for a bit." She plopped down decisively on the ground and smiled up at him.

Rowe sighed and was left with no other option than to fetch the horses. They settled into a makeshift picnic that involved Ettne shoving every piece of food in his mouth that they handed him. When their saddlebags were emptied of sustenance, the poet flopped onto his back and let loose a moan of general satiation.

"Your kindness is unsurpassed," he informed them. "The next time someone tells me that Tevouins are devils bent on eating my heart, I shall correct him straightaway."

"Our pleasure, darling," Naima said with a smile.

"We live to serve." Rowe sounded, on the whole, less genuine. He was squinting toward the sun and lamenting the loss of time. They wouldn't make it back to the Great Desert until midnight at least.

"Honestly, Rowe," Naima admonished, as if she were reading his thoughts. "We'll be home soon enough, and it's not every day you stumble across a wandering poet."

Ettne's chest swelled visibly, and he sat up.

"I believe the lady wished a poem." He cleared his throat.

Rowe started to protest, but Naima hushed him with a rather fierce poke to the side.

Ettne proceeded to recite a long, rather irreverent doggerel about a thrice cursed frog of Terish, pausing occasionally for vigorous motions of illustration or a dramatic change of tone. He finished with a flourish, even performing a half-bow from where he sat.

Silence was the reaction for several moments, as neither Rowe nor Naima knew quite how to respond. It was not the sort of poem that one read in books of scholarly literature.

"Interesting," Rowe said finally. "And were you drunk or sober when you wrote that one?"

"I didn't write it. 'Twas a fair maiden with a silver tongue who spun it out of air." He sighed pensively. "She was a true master of the art. Her very presence inspired me."

"I see," Rowe said, repressing an amused smile. "And what happened to this fair maiden?"

"I called her a fair maiden to her face, and she slapped me hard enough that I saw out of my ear for several seconds." He rubbed his cheek in reminiscence. "She insulted me in twelve structured verses that I can't recall for the life of me, and I never saw her again."

"How dreadful," Naima said consolingly.

Ettne shrugged.

"If my life were easy, I wouldn't be a poet."

"Difficult burden to bear and all that," Rowe said with a nod.

Ettne grinned widely.

"You understand my plight at last."

"Not quite," Rowe climbed to his feet. "But I suppose that's part of your burden."

"Eternally misunderstood," Naima said with a faint smile. That was something she understood perfectly.

"I shall never forget this," Ettne declared with considerable theatrics as the two Tevouins mounted their horses. "To be kind to a stranger is to create a bond of infinite depth that will master the years."

"Sounds dangerous," Rowe said. "But poetic, nonetheless. You must be sobering up."

"Try and stay that way, darling," Naima said cheerfully.

Ettne swept a bow, but did not make any promises.

"When you get tired of making your bed in the middle of the road, you should come to the Great Desert," Naima said. "The Tevouin camp is in need of a poet—right, Rowe?"

"I actually can't think of anything we need less—ow!" Rowe rubbed his leg where Naima had kicked him. "Yes, you should come," he told Ettne.

The poet smiled ruefully.

"I thank you for your continued and excessive kindness, but I fear my destiny rests in the fertile boughs of travel, where I shall pluck the fruit of my deliverance as I—"

Rowe, uninterested in further poetry, had nudged his horse into a trot and was well on his way. Naima smiled apologetically at Ettne, wished him well, and followed suit.

Ettne recited a few verses to the heavens, and then he crawled back under his cloak for a mid-morning nap. His dreams were set in structured rhyme and featured a silver-tongued maiden with a rather daunting right hook.

Overhead, the Asherian sun chased away the winter's morning chill, and for a brief and precious time all was right in the world.

* * *

_(A/N: If you don't happen to recall, quotes from Ettne's marvelous (and sometimes less-than-marvelous) works were at the beginning of several chapters in _Arranged._ Why that entitles him to his very own supplement is yet to be determined.)_


End file.
